Sleepily warm while cold within,
Crawling from holes and shedding skin.
With venom of death he fights for life;
Is there a joy in his constant strife?
One he frightens with his wiggly way,
Another finds joy in his graceful sway;
Creeping on banks near rivers fast,
How can he know how long he’ll last?
And when he slithers to a lonely grave,
How many of us,
Will ever ask why?
James K. Richardson